Running from Fate
by SammiS9987
Summary: When Sam dreams that Dean kills him, he packs up and runs. When Dean finds Sam missing he begins the search to bring his little brother home safe. So what exactly is Sam running from? And can Dean find out in time to save him? CHAPTER ELEVEN NOW UP!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Winchesters, although if I did I would be having a much more entertaining time than writingWINK

_**A/N: Italics indicates Sam is dreaming**_

Sam writhed around in the latest hotel bed, in the latest hotel room he and his brother inhabited. Small whispers tumbled from of his mouth as his brow scrunched together. A thin sheen of sweat clung to his body. He breathed tumultuously, trapped in the grips of another nightmare.

"_It's your fault Sam."_

_The words were like a punch in the gut, and seemed more than out of place when they left Dean's lips. His brother was acting completely whacked._

"_You're the reason Jessica died. You're the reason she cried out in anguish when she burned alive."_

_Sam's eyes searched Dean's, combing, desperately seeking an answer, some sort of explanation to this rather personal attack. He noted Dean's tense stance and the way his hands clenched and unclenched in the dimness of their motel room. He catalogued away bits of information such as the red flush to his big brother's cheeks, the vicious yet mournful tone to his voice, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and the single tear tracking its way down…wait a minute. Tears? Crying? Dean was crying? Dean never cried, especially in front of Sam. Sam tuned himself back into Dean's rant the instant he noticed the tear. The words flew from his mouth faster and faster and he struggled to stay coherent. Sam was too confused. Why was Dean crying? And of all things, why about Jessica?_

"_You should've told…your fault…burned…you killed…screamed…can't do this…I loved her…"_

_His final three words hung in the air. 'I loved her'. Loved her? He didn't even know her! Their brief, and only single encounter, had been Dean shamelessly hitting on her for all of three minutes before Sam ushered her out of the room to give him and his brother some semblance of privacy to discuss the latest and greatest family crisis._

_He shook his head in disbelief. Confusion ruled his mind as a strange gnawing sensation took hold in the pit of his stomach. Dean had grown far too quiet and his gaze was settled firmly on Sam. In that moment Sam suffered a sudden attack of claustrophobia and the walls of his motel room began to close in on them. Dean stared at Sam ferociously, harmful intent clear on his face. He could find nothing to offer Dean to calm him and simply watched as his brother shifted restlessly in place. Suddenly his instincts dawned on him. They hadn't been prominent because he had always derived a quiet sense of security from his older brother. The gnawing sensation eating away at his stomach was recognized as fear as he realized he was in danger. Fear fast turned to terror though, when it came to him that he was in danger from Dean._

"_I loved her," Dean whispered. The words were laced with desolation and Dean choked back a sob. His eyes flashed with rage and he let loose the guttural cry of a wounded animal. _

_Sam's head smashed off the floor and he slammed his eyes shut to fight against the immediate resulting vertigo and nausea. The coppery taste in his mouth warred with the bile in his throat. A sick realization bloomed. Dean had attacked him, which was not completely out of character since they sparred regularly. But Dean had drawn blood, and there had been no regret. No stiff, quick apology followed by a trademark smile and witty quip in an attempt to receive forgiveness. There had been nothing. The ringing in his ears slowly faded and Dean's voice penetrated the fog. _

_"Open your eyes Sammy. Look at me damn you, you can't hide from this."_

_Sam's eyes fluttered open and he glared at his brother. _

"_It's Sam," he ground out and groaned as the bile in his throat grew dangerously close to passing the threshold of no return. His fear was fast turning to anger as he realized his brother, his protector, was becoming his tormentor. What was worse was the complete lack of anything resembling a coherent reason for the attack. _

_Dean immediately lashed out and his foot connected with Sam's ribs. Sam reeled from the impact as the air in his body rushed out in a magnificent whoosh. His eyes watered as he fought for control of his diaphragm and worked to bring much needed oxygen back in to his body. It seemed that Dean had failed to notice the rather intense crack that had resounded through the room after he tried to put his foot through Sam's torso. Fire tore through his rib cage and he hollered in pain. Sam was positive that if lifted his shirt right then and there that his entire right midsection would be one giant bruise. He curled in on himself and groaned as the movement set his world spinning again. _

"_She was too good for you, but somehow you got her. You never deserved her. You killed the most important person in my life!"_

_Dean continued to bellow his tirade as he circled Sam's huddled form like a piece of prized meat. _

"_Dean…please"_

"_Don't please me you ungrateful bastard!"_

_The plea had pushed Dean over the edge and a second assault ensued. His foot landed another devastating blow, this time to the small of Sam's back. Sam stiffened straight and rolled to accommodate the latest onslaught to his already painfully tortured nerves. Dean jumped to action taking advantage of his temporary, yet incredibly vulnerable state. Perching himself on Sam's chest Dean began planting multiple blows to his little brother's face._

_Sam mentally berated himself when he realized how he had opened himself up to a much more vicious attack. Dean was currently planted on his sternum, arms flailing in a mad frenzy. He grunted in pain as he felt Dean's fist cracking his cheekbone. After several well-placed punches, punctuated by Dean's harsh accusations and insane ranting, Sam's face resembled that of a rather shoddy boxer. The brow right above his left eye was donning a deep gash, and his lip was split and swollen. Several bruises claimed large areas of his face and several more superficial cuts graced his right cheek. Blood leaked and smeared from torn flesh and trickled down into scattered puddles on the floor. Sam's attempts to block Dean's attack failed miserably. Dean's strength was being fueled by a multitude of emotions that Sam could not even come close to keeping pace with. _

_Then all the air in Sam's world vanished. Dean's calloused hands clamped around his throat like a vice and his elbows locked, placing the weight of his body onto his target's throat. His eyes danced with psychosis and drizzled out his agony. Somewhere in Sam's chest a match had been struck. The burning feeling expanded as his lungs worked to bring in air they simply could not get to. Sam's hands shook as he beat at Dean's chest His hips bucked and swayed trying to unseat his attacker. His feet tapped out the tune of a dying man against the worn floor. He grabbed frantically at his big brother's shirt trying anything to loosen the iron grip constricting his airways. His eyes bulged as the pressure in his head built, and tears swelled and fell down his cheeks. He silently willed his brother to snap out of it and save him. Sam's struggles became weaker as the edges of his vision fuzzed and Dean's maniacal laughter filled his ears. His arms, drained of strength, fell limply at his sides, blood trickling out of his nose. No longer possessing the will to fight, Sam's oxygen deprived body stilled beneath Dean's hands and he let his eyes slip shut. _

_Dean leaned in close to Sam's ear as his eyes drifted and whispered words laced with bitter vengeance, "A life for a life Sammy boy."_

_Sam's chest rose one final time as Dean's word's played about his ears, and then he gave in to the blackness._

Please review and let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Same as always…I don't own the Winchester boys, but certainly wish I did!

For those of you who reviewed, thank you soooo much! The feed back is a wonderful inspiration. Please keep the comments and suggestions coming and enjoy the story!

Dean slowly rose through the layers of the unconscious. Unsure of what exactly had awoken him, he remained lying still in his bed, eyes shut, gathering his senses. Then it reached his ears. The faintest hint of a whimper tainted the stale air of the tiny motel room. He sighed and pushed himself up in his bed. Glancing at the clock he grumbled at the glowing numbers taunting him about his annoyingly concious state. He then rose to perform his nightly task of rescuing Sam from the 'evil things' in his dreams. He pulled down his blankets and peeled himself from his sheets, padding silently across the small space in between the two beds. He couldn't see much of his brother as he listened to the distressed whimpers. The dark form thrashed about the mattress fighting off an invisible attacker.

"Jesus Sam, this has gotta stop."

Dean reached out to release Sam from his latest round of torture.

"Dean…please"

Dean froze. Sam was dreaming about him? Was he in danger? No, Sammy sounded afraid…very afraid. It was a plea. For mercy or help? He couldn't quite detect which. Dean stared intensely at Sam hoping to catch another snippet of dialogue from his nightmare. Sam's choking gasps filled the room as his arms flailed wildly. Dean, worried about whether Sam was really choking, leapt to his brother's aid. Grabbing his shoulders, Dean noted the wetness of the bed that had been saturated by Sam's sweat. Tremors racked Sam's body and Dean had to employ every bit of stamina he had to avoid the dancing limbs that were Sam's arms.

"C'mon man time to get up. Sammy! Sam!" Dean shook Sam profusely as he struggled in his arms. "Damn you Sam, WAKE UP!"

Sam's eyes shot open baring the glaze of someone who was not quite within all their faculties, Sam swung. His fist connected and he landed a solid punch to Dean's temple.

"Shit, Sam!" Dean tumbled to the floor, stars doing a merry jig before his eyes.

Sam flew from his bed his back slamming against the wall. Dean suddenly got the image of a cornered lion and immediately backed off. Sam was a good fighter and although Dean was confident he could beat him, he didn't want to hurt him, and it was evident that Sam felt threatened. Slowly he rose and waited for Sam to come back to the real world. He touched his hand to his head and glanced at his fingers. No blood, that was good, Sam would be horrified to think he had busted his brother's head open. However, Dean winced at the contact and he knew that he would have quite the lovely bruise tomorrow. Speaking quietly and tranquilly, Dean tried to coax his brother back into the now.

"Sammy."

Sam's eyes took a few moments to adapt to the dimness of the room. He couldn't really remember what had happened but he did not feel safe in anyway. He searched the room, yearning for the protection of his big brother. That's when he noticed Dean plopped rather unceremoniously on the floor, his face already showing signs of Sam's spontaneous attack.

"Sammy," Dean tried again.

"Dean?"

"Welcome back Tyson."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What happened?"

"Don't worry about it, it's not your fault."

Sam's world came to screeching halt as Dean's words echoed in his mind. 'It's not your fault…your fault…fault." The memories of his most recent nightmare came crashing down on him, bombarding his senses. Flashes of Dean screaming at him, his fists making short work of his face. Adrenaline shot through his system and Sam fought for control. It couldn't have really been a premonition… could it? No. No, it wasn't possible. He was sure he had just accidentally flattened one side of Dean's head and Dean hadn't even tried to return the favor. As a matter of fact he hadn't even raised his voice. Dean would never _kill_ him.

Dean watched Sam struggle with a range of emotions. He kept quiet, figuring Sam needed time to work through them. He watched Sam clench his eyes shut and take deep breaths. Watched as he rubbed his palms against his thighs as though to remove some offending substance that wasn't really there. He listened as Sam mumbled to himself odd reassurances.

Dean stretched and yawned remembering that it was still the wee hours of the morning and that he was more than eager to return to his bed. Figuring Sam was awake and more than capable of taking care of himself now, he favored the idea of crisp sheets and flat, yet somewhat fluffy, motel pillows. He yawned once more, scratched his cheek, ran a hand through his hair, and stumbled forward on to his mattress. He relaxed and waited. It didn't take long for Sam to return to his own bed, but he was far from sleep. He flopped down and leaned forward with his head resting in his hands.

"Sam?"

Sam flinched at the sound of his older brother's voice, which did not go unnoticed.

"That bad?"

'God you have no idea,' he thought, failing miserably at hiding his obvious discomfort at being in Dean's presence.

"What happened?"

The awkward silence wasn't something Dean could handle. There had never been secrets between them. At least nothing that had thrown their chemistry so far off. He gazed intently at the young man seated across from him, hoping for a response.

Sam went cold at the thought. Having no idea how to began the conversation, the most offending phrases blazed through his mind. 'Why gee big brother, harboring any murderous feelings against me? Suffering the need to crush my windpipe with your bare hands?' How did he tell him? How could he tell him? He tested out the words in his mind. 'Dean, you are going to try and kill me.' His mind screamed in protest, 'Not _try_'. He struggled to come up with a decent lie to satisfy Dean's curiosity, but the words wouldn't come. His stomach twisted in knots as he desperately tried to shake the fear of his older brother. His mouth was dry, and, as a slight dizziness crept up in him, he was glad he was already sitting.

Dean was all too aware of Sam's distress. Far more disturbing was Sam's complete inability to talk about it. He wished he would just look at him. Dean hated being blocked out. And why the hell did Sam flinch every time he opened his mouth? It was almost as if… that was it, Sam was afraid of him. Dean's highly tailored pride felt bruised and anger took hold at his brother's rather unjustified, leastways in his mind, emotion. He had never harmed Sam, and damn it all he never would. What's more was Sam knew that. Which meant he had to have seen something…but what? For the second time that night, Dean kicked off his blankets and sauntered over to his younger brother's side.

"Sam, what happened?"

"Dean…I…you…I'm sorry."

Sam launched himself from his perch and sought solace in the tiny bathroom, locking the door behind him.

Whatever had upset him must have been far worse than normal, and if Sam wanted to claim one of the old Winchester favorites and pretend it never happened, Dean guessed he could be willing to go right along with him. If it had actually been important, Sam would still be yapping away and attempting to give Dean orders in that most irritating voice younger siblings always seemed to possess. Giving his brother the time and space he decided he needed, Dean firmly locked himself to his bed and returned to his dreams.

Sam paced the dingy bathroom, repeatedly running his shaking hands through his hair. He struggled to calm his chaotic mind, and thanked whoever was_ up there _for stopping Dean from following him. His heart raced and sweat trickled down his body. Slowly, he backed himself against the door, and slumped down onto the cool tiles with a pitiful thump. He drew his knees up to his chest, his exhaustion finally taking hold. A lump rose in his throat as he realized there was only one way to avoid this fate. He was going to have to run. Turn tail, leave his brother, and hide. As children, one of their favorite games was hide and seek. Dean could never find Sam when they played. Although Dean claimed he was doing the nice big brother thing and letting Sam win, the frustration on Dean's face was enough of a hint that Sam was truly too good at hiding, and Dean simply _couldn't_ find him. He knew Dean wouldn't find him. Not this time. Not this time when he had a world of places to choose from. Sam sat and, as the tears began to swell, made no attempt to control the gut wrenching sobs that wracked his body. Grief tore through him and damn near shredded his heart when he realized not only was he going to have to leave, but he wasn't even going to be able to say goodbye.

Please review and let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: You know, every time I have to type this, it is just a depressing reminder of how I don't own these wondrous creatures. As always, the Winchesters aren't mine, and neither is Jessica. This version of Jessica's mom is though. Oh yeah, my claim to fame baby!

Thanks again to all those who reviewed. Working hard to give steady updates. This is my first attempt at writing a story. Loving the comments. Hope you all enjoy.

The walls of the dark room danced with shadows. Whispers of unseen creatures twirled among them. Tendrils of smoke rose from incense sticks and weaved through the air. In the center of the room sat a small rectangular table covered in a black cloth. Red and black candles formed a semi-circle around an arrangement of pendants and stones. The lit candles drizzled wax and the flames whipped and licked at the air. Several different sized bowls sat along the left edge of the table filled with an assortment of oddities including sage, black salt, nutmeg, and sulfur. On the right side of the table lay a dagger. The longer silver blade was inscribed in an ancient tongue. The ebony handle inlaid with twirling vines of gold.

Beneath the table, hidden by the velvet cloth, sat a glass jar. The top was a wooden stopper carved with binding symbols. The jar shimmered and glowed with an eerie blue essence. Every now and again the swirling smoke would tremble and the jar would wiggle and dance ever so slightly around the floor. Beneath it, another binding spell was carved into the floor, effectively creating an invisible prison from which there was no escape.

Somewhere in the darkness a door creaked open. The temperature of the room dropped a few degrees. Insects scratched and scurried away from a growing evil. A cloaked figure approached the altar wearing its power like a shroud. Seated before the table, the figure fixed its gaze on the picture resting in the center of the semi-circle of flaming candles.

It began an ominous chant. The rage it radiated permeated throughout the room, riding on the smoke of the incense and poisoning the air. Shadows of unspeakable things began to take shape in the faint glow the flames cast upon the wall… horns, tails, teeth, and other things one could not identify. A low, constant note sounded as the creature retrieved the dagger with both hands. One hand wrapped around the handle in an experienced grip. The other wrapped around the blade. With an almost inaudible hiss of pain, it withdrew the weapon from its hand and let the blood from its now wounded palm leak down its arm. Raising it's bloodied extremity high in the air above its head, the chant continued. A multitude of voices sifted through the room. Whispering, circling around each other, pulsating, throbbing and rising in unison. Fisting the wounded hand, it shook droplets of blood onto the well-placed picture below. The voices rose in a magnificent crescendo and fell with as much grace, crying out their haunting melody.

Jessica's death would be avenged. It's eyes gleamed with a wild malice and fixated on the young man in the picture before it. His brown hair hung down in feathery wisps in front of his face, his tall, lanky frame hiding a fierce strength. Bastard. It was all his fault. His secrets, his family, they had killed Jessica. The thought was enfuriating. He would suffer. It would be vicious, and brutal. There would be screaming, and oh the joy there would be in that.

Slumping down, head to chest, it closed its eyes and sent itself seeking outside of its body. It had done this many times, searching for its victims while they slept, and combing their minds. It searched for weaknesses and vulnerabilities. This boy's was all too easy to find. All it had to do was isolate him, and with a little persuasion he didn't have a chance. Sam Winchester was as good as dead.

**Sorry this chapter was so short! I have been so jammed up with schoolwork that I haven't gotten to write very much. My cousin told me she didn't like it at all, but I had to set the table for the villain sometime. Any suggestions for improvement would be helpful. I will try to put up chapter 4 tonight or tomorrow. As always please review, and I will update ASAP!**


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I am boycotting diclaimers, citing the fact that they are far too traumatic to have to type at the beginning of every chapter.

As promised Chapter 4! Thanks for the reviews and please keep them coming. PLEASE, please, please keep them coming. Thanks for the encouagement on chapter 3, I am glad you guys liked it. As always enjoy the story!

Sam sat huddled in a seat at the far left corner of the bus. His right foot pressed against the seat in front of him, and his left knee drawn up to his chest. He sat with his head pressed against the window. His eyes traced lazy patterns as the rain drizzled down the transom. The patch of fog near his chin grew as the heat from his every exhale clung to the glass. The weather itself reflected the organic misery that ran deep in his veins. His mind wandered and he found himself reminiscing if his childhood. Whenever he was sad Dean would always do the stupidest things to cheer him up. One time he had taken all the toilet paper from the bathroom and twirled it around himself, claiming he was a mummy that had come to eat Sam's brain. It had been such a foolish thing to do because their Dad had been rather displeased when he came home that night and found all the toilet paper strewn about the house. However, Dean had cured Sam from whatever childish thing had upset him. He felt the beginnings of a sad smile tugging at his lips. He missed Dean. He wondered how he had reacted to have awoken and found him gone. Sam felt horrible at having to cause him such worry, but there had really been no choice.

Once he had regained his composure, he sat waiting for the trademark snore that ensured Dean was in a deep sleep. He had snuck from the bathroom and retrieved the duffle bag from under his bed. His chest had fractured and, as the last belonging was shoved into the bag, the final piece of his heart fell on the floor. He had stared at Dean momentarily, considering the hell he was going to go through when he woke up. He folded the small note he had written and left it on his pillow. With several deep breaths, Sam hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and walked to the door. With one final glance at his brother's peacefully sleeping form, he had slipped out silently into the night.

The memory of his great escape consumed him. The guilt left his heart feeling raw. He wanted so badly to turn around and tell Dean every detail, but somehow he absolutely knew this was something Dean would not be able to stop. He hadn't been himself when it happened. His eyes were different. That was one thing that Dean couldn't control. Sam could always read Dean through his eyes. If he ended up in an altered state of mind, even with previous warning of his actions, Dean would never be able to prevent them.

Sam damn near fell out of his seat when his phone rang. '_Shit'. _It hadn't even occurred to him to ditch it. He adjusted in his seat and fished his cell from his pocket. The illuminated screen flashed, 'Dean calling". Disaster almost struck as Sam's fingers itched to answer the phone and his brain warred logic with emotion. He almost couldn't stop himself until the memory of Dean's hands around his throat leapt to the front of his mind. He raised one hand to his neck, rubbing unconsciously, his fingers twitched and drifted away from the call button. Each ring sounded like a horrific plea and Sam could hardly stand it. Insanity had almost claimed him when the phone went silent. '_Thank God'._

He let his head fall back and heaved a sigh of relief. He didn't know where he was going. He only knew he wanted to put as much space between them as he could. He had been traveling for hours. Road weary and full of grief, he wanted nothing more than to curl up in some random motel bed and fall asleep to the sound of Dean's snore. Something he had always complained about, and now there was a strong longing for it lurking in his chest. He smiled wryly as he remembered two nights ago. Dean's infernal snoring had kept him up for two hours. He had been so annoyed he hadn't even realized he had whipped the pillow at Dean until his bedraggled head shot up in surprise and Sam was offered one of those '_if I weren't so damn tired'_ glares. He gave a small sniffle and jammed his fists into his pockets. Nausea invaded his stomach and he closed his eyes. There was no escaping it, as nothing but despairing memories of Dean lay behind those closed lids. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep.

At first it had been peaceful. Flashes of tag and hide and seek floated around his head. Sharing dinner in front of the television. Dean tucking him in at night, always being the big brother and protector. Of course all good things must come to an end. Sam shifted in his seat and groaned. Visions of Dean looming over him flooded his mind.

_"Dean…please."_

_"Don't please me you ungrateful bastard."_

_Sam's body jerked at the impact of boot to back. Dean was on him again, strangling the life out of him. He fought for air. He fought for life. Mostly he fought for Dean. When his brother came to, he would never be able to live with himself if he succeeded in his current task. Through blood, tears and sweat, he fought. He wanted to protect himself of course, but he was also trying to protect Dean. Protect Dean from having to live with himself after committing such a horrific act. He swung at Dean's face. Nothing. He punched him in the chest. Nothing. His struggle was short lived as his muscles began to weaken since the onset of anoxia. _

"Mister? Mister? HEY MISTER!"

Sam woke with a start. His body protesting the sudden movement as stiffness had set in from sitting in the plastic molded bus seat for such a lengthy period of time.

"You ok?"

Bright green eyes, laced with worry, peered up at him. The face in which those eyes sat was one of youthfulness. Sam peered down at the young girl.

"I said are you ok?"

Sam's eyebrows rose at the sternness in her voice. She stood at an adorable 4 feet with long brown curls dangling down her back. She stared at him, full of curiosity.

"Uh, yeah. I think…why?"

"Well you sort of sounded like you were choking."

Sam paled and clutched the edge his seat. Awareness of his surroundings finally hit him. How many people had noticed? He needed to remain inconspicuous. He glanced around the bus, taking note of the odd stares he was receiving. He refocused his attention on the young girl before him, hoping the other passengers would get bored if he just ignored them.

"I am just fine sweetheart. I must have been snoring."

"Well that's an awfully interesting snore you got there mister."

Sam smiled at her bluntness.

"Whom are you riding with?"

"My dad put me on here so I could go and see my grandma." She puffed up proudly and tossed her curls over her shoulder. "He said I was brave to go all by myself."

Her eyes shone with pride.

Sam gazed at those green eyes thinking of how strongly they reminded him of Dean. Her whole attitude in general encompassed his older counter part and he reveled in her company.

"He was absolutely right. You are very brave to ride all the way to your Grandma's by yourself."

She flashed him a crooked smile obviously flattered by his praise. When he patted the seat next to him she plopped herself down and immediately engaged Sam in a fun round of twenty questions.

"So what's your name?"

"Sam. What's yours?"

"Rachel Lyn. How old are you?"

"Twenty-two."

"Really? Wow you're pretty old!"

Sam chuckled. "How old are you?"

"I am eight and a half."

The next few hours were spent listening to the stories of the girl's grandmother. The large farmhouse she owned with the chickens out back, and the old sheep dog that seemed like it never left the front porch. The fresh biscuits that were on the counter every morning and the after noon swims she would take in the lake behind the barn. She spoke animatedly about it all and didn't stop until the bus pulled into its final destination.

She climbed onto Sam's lap and pressed her little nose to the window.

"Grandma! Grandma!"

Sam spotted a handsomely plump woman standing beneath an awning. She wore thick glasses and her hair was abnormally dark, signaling a hair salon appointment gone horribly wrong. She wore a shiny purple blouse and baggy blue jeans. She smiled and waved, a jaunty air about her. Sam flinched as Rachel's knee fumbled dangerously close to… He sighed in relief when she climbed down and joined the back of line exiting the bus. He snatched up his duffle bag and followed. His phone had rung several times throughout the trip and the screen flashed a reminder of voicemails. He wanted to wait until he was alone to listen to the messages. He knew at the sound of Dean's voice, the precarious hold he had on his emotions would more than likely dissolve.

He left the bus and worked his way through the crowd. He watched to make sure Rachel was safely with her grandmother before disappearing into the station. Locking himself inside a phone booth, he thumbed through the local telephone book for the number to a nearby cab company. A short ride later and small credit card fraud infraction and he ambled into a room at the local Motel 8.

He dropped into a sitting chair next to the window and pulled his phone from his pocket. Dialing the number he pulled up his voicemail. He punched in his password and waited. Dean's voice floated into his ear and his whole body tensed.

"Hey Sam. On your way back to the room stop and grab me a coffee."

Sam filed away the message on his phone. He wanted to save that small part of his brother and keep it with him. He huffed a few times and stilled his trembling hands as he listened to the second message.

"Sam? Dude, what is taking so long? You get lost or something? Put some pep in your step Sammy! Let's go, get a move on!"

Again Sam saved the message. He swiped at a lone tear tracking down his cheek and bowed his head as the third message played.

"Sam, where the hell are you. I actually had to get my own coffee, and why aren't you answering your ..." Sam raised his head when Dean went silent. _'That's it,'_ Sam thought, _'he must of found it'_. He heard the crinkle of the paper as Dean opened the note Sam had left resting on the bed he had ran from in the night. There was a momentary silence followed by one of Dean's favorite words. "Shit."

Silent tears leaked from his eyes as Sam shoved his phone into the bottom of his bag, not wanting to ever see it again. He fell face first on the bed, smothering himself with his pillow. Distracted by so many emotions, his hunting instincts were far from the front of his mind. He took no note of the shadows lurking on his walls and the flickering of the lights. Chalking it up to the fact that this was not one of the better dives he had taken residence in he fell into a fitful sleep. Springing from the walls, the silhouette hovered by the bed and entered Sam's mind. Learning and studying, it withdrew. Satisfied it knew all it needed to know, it left Sam to battle his inner demons.

Please be kind and review. Keep in mind this is my first time writing a story. Thanks again!


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks for all the reviews! I love the feedback. As always, enjoy the story!

Kate: Thank you for the PM. I appreciate the opinion and the help.

Dean tucked his phone between his shoulder and ear while he fished his room key from the pocket of his leather jacket. He sighed in frustration as Sam's voicemail answered for the third time. Turning the knob, he used the tip of his boot to push the door open.

"Sam, where the hell are you?" He shuffled through the door and dropped his keys on the nightstand. "I actually had to get my own coffee, and why aren't you answering your…" '_What's that?'_ Dean stood between the two beds. He eyed the piece of paper resting on his brother's pillow with dread. He slumped onto his bed never removing his gaze from the note as though it might attack him at any moment. He gripped his knees and stared at the offending object, willing it to disappear. He held his eyes shut several times until he was thoroughly sure that there was no escaping the truth. He reached out slowly, hands shaking. Picking up the note, his heart raced and the blood roared in his ears. He hesitated, not knowing if he truly wanted to see what message the note held.

Memories from long ago raced through his mind. His father had disappeared like this one time, only leaving a note behind to assure Dean that he hadn't been taken, but had left to pursue something. Worried for his father's safety, Dean utilized every hunting skill his father had taught him and the search had begun. Eventually Dean had found him in an abandoned warehouse, mangled and bloodied, barely clinging to life. He had held it against his dad for months. He shook his head and stuffed that memory firmly into the back of his mind. Steeling himself, he took a deep breath and unfolded the note.

Don't Follow Me.

Sammy

"Shit." Dean uttered the word with frustration. It was a gift really, that note. It was to let Dean know that Sam had willingly walked out that door. What concerned him though, was the way Sam signed it. He hated being called Sammy. Dean felt a tidal wave of emotions ripping through him. He had signed it with his baby name. His little brother name. Sammy- it was an, "I love you." Sammy- it was a, "Be careful." Sammy- it was a goodbye.

His brain couldn't process it. Sam was gone. His heart ached at the loss and questions flooded his mind as he realized he had to get to his little brother. He had to make sure he was safe. He had to protect him… but when exactly had Sam left? How much of a head start did he have? The roaring in Dean's ears soared in a magnificent crescendo. Cold sweat clung to his body and he trembled with a mixture of anger and fear. Anger at Sam for not trusting him enough to help him, and fear at what could have induced his brother to lose that trust. He glanced around the room slowly, dazed. His brain raced with the multitude of horrifying things that Sam could be chasing. The thought that Sam was running from something, and not chasing after something, never even crossed his mind. However, the memory of the night Dean found his father in the warehouse had snuck back up on him. Flashes of himself running through the door and coming to a sliding halt on the floor next to his dad's body flooded his head. Lifting his father's upper body onto his lap and stroking the blood soaked hair from his face. He hadn't realized he had mumbled a goodbye to his father through his tears that night. This time though, when Dean pushed back the saturated brown locks, they were no longer his father's. He stared down into the eyes of his little brother, blazing with pain just as his dad's had been. A sudden fury consumed him at the thought of something hurting Sam and he snapped into action. He raced about the room flinging his belongings haphazardly into his duffle bag. He accidentally knocked his coffee onto the floor in his haste. He eyed it with disgust. If he hadn't been so damn preoccupied with his caffeine craving he would've noticed the note sooner. He would've been on the way to his brother's rescue sooner. Dean vowed that when he got his brother back he would never drink another drop of coffee again. It took all of three minutes before he was tossing his bag into the back seat of the Impala and kicking it into gear.

"Hang on Sammy, I'm coming."

Dean let his emotions fuel him as he sped down the highway ignoring speed limit signs of any fashion. He drove with blind fear, picturing scenarios of Sam fighting (and losing to) some faceless creature in his head, each one more terrifying than the last. His stomach clenched and bile rose in the back of his throat. If Sam got hurt he would never forgive himself. It took him several minutes before a startling realization took hold. He was driving, but to where? He had no idea where Sam had gone. His brother hadn't left him any clues. '_Fuck.' _ He clenched his hand and punched the steering wheel. He glanced along the road spotting several signs indicating an upcoming exit for a rest stop and switched on his blinker. He pulled in front of a small diner with a flashing neon sign saying, ROADSIDE EATS! He pulled his phone from his pocket knowing it was a pointless action, but he felt it was necessary nonetheless. He dialed up Sam's cell and waited. He sighed as he heard Sam's voice over the phone.

"Hey, you've reached Sam. I can't get to the phone, right now but leave a message and I'll call you back."

Dean took several breaths fumbling for his words. He didn't know where to begin and he sighed as he thumbed the end button. He held the phone in front of him willing Sam to call. When the phone didn't ring, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He tilted his head back against the seat and let his eyes slide shut. A thought occurred to him, as he lay slouched in the Impala. '_I am slouched in the Impala.'_ He was in the car. He still had the car! So how had Sam gotten out of town so fast? Dean pushed open the driver's side door and strolled into the diner. He examined his surroundings, taking in the rather pitiful state of the place. An elderly couple sat in the far corner sipping coffee and talking, and a few loners sat scattered at the bar. The tiles of the floor were scuffed and dirty and several of the overhead lights were busted.

"Can I help you sir?"

Before Dean, a waitress of an interminable age stood hand to hip. The only word that came to mind when one looked at her was 'ancient'. In the blue plaid dress uniform and ivory horn-rimmed glasses with a gold chain, she looked like someone plucked right out of the fifties. Her nametag sagged to one side and the engraving was worn with the years. Dean could barely make out the word without squinting.

"Doris?"

"Yeah?"

"Oh, um," Dean cleared his throat, "You wouldn't happen to have a phone book around here, would you?"

He followed Doris to a booth by the window and waited while she went on a hunt for the text. Dean stared out the window watching the trees sway in the wind. Silently, he prayed for Sam's safety. He was violently ripped from his reverie when a thick yellow book slammed onto the table in front of him.

"Can I get you anything else? Coffee?"

Dean winced at the thought. Following through with his vow to avoid the tasty treat, he ordered a root beer, and a cheeseburger with fries. When Doris had finally left him in peace, he opened up the book and began searching for nearby train stations. The listings showed several within the area and Dean shoved his hand through his hair, realizing that he was going to be very annoyed by the time this was all over.

Several hours later, and frustrated beyond belief, Dean sat with every train station listed baring a large red ex. It had been a tedious task. Calling and recalling stations; searching for tickets purchased under numerous possible names. He didn't think Sam would've been stupid enough to purchase a ticket under his own name, but he made sure he checked every possibility before calling a new station. He rubbed his eyes with annoyance as he considered other options. With the local train stations holding no leads, and having no nearby airports to speak of, that left two possibilities. One, Sam had hitch hiked, in which case Dean was screwed. Short of Sam actually answering his cell and Dean try to locate him via GPS, there was no way to track him. Two, Sam had found another mode of transportation. Dean let his gaze wander out the window as he tried to think like Sam. '_What did you do Sammy?"_ Dean stared at the highway as he watched the vehicles speed by. Unconsciously he listened to the scattered conversation sifting through the diner.

"…Don't know what the big deal is…"

"…Left me standing in the rain…"

"…Said…sorry…"

"…No money for cab…"

"…Honey please…"

"…Had to take…bus!"

Dean kicked himself under the table. '_Come on Dean._' He rolled his eyes as once again, he opened the large phone book before him. Looking up 'bus stations' he was overjoyed to find only two listings. Twenty minutes later Dean flung a ten-dollar bill next to his empty plate and hurried out of the diner. Grinning, he started the Impala and peeled out of the parking lot. He learned that Sam had purchased a ticket to some no name town in Montana under one of the first fake names either of them had ever used, David Brenner.

About an hour into his drive Dean began to feel ill. His head pounded and his stomach felt like led. An unknown fear clutched at him and he pressed his foot down on the accelerator, anxious to get to his baby brother.

" God Sam, what in the hell are you after?"

Sorry it took so long to get an update, but school has been brutal. Thank you for all the reviews and PLEASE KEEP THEM COMING!


	6. Chapter 6

So I don't think "I'm Sorry" will cover the complete lack of updates as of late? Well too bad cause that's really all I got. Between school and work I have barely had time to breath, let alone write.

THANK YOU FOR ALL THE REVIEWS AND PLEASE KEEP THEM COMING!

"Mr. Brenner?"

Sam plastered a smile on his face, familiar with the upcoming dance. The man who greeted him appeared slightly comical. His head was bald and so shiny that it reflected the fluorescent lights fixed to the ceiling. Thick black-rimmed glasses sat perched atop a bulbous nose that twitched every so often and knocked them off center. Which caused him to be making constant adjustments. His mustache looked like an overgrown shrubbery and he was far too small for the clothes he was in. He reminded Sam of a child trying to wear its parent's clothes. In addition, the shoes protruding from under the baggy pant leg were enormous. It was a marvel the man could walk without falling flat on his face. Then a horrifying thought occurred to him. They looked like clown shoes. He shuddered at the idea. Damn clowns! Why can't people see they are just plain evil! His smile faltered ever so slightly before he caught himself. He couldn't afford childish fears to take hold right now; he was too desperate for this job.

He had already been on multiple job interviews with very little luck. With almost no background information to give to employers, most were incredibly hesitant to help him. No previous employers, references, an address, not even a fucking social security number. The only reason he seemed to be getting any interviews at all was his admirable ability to harass the management via telephone until they gave in simply to stop him calling.

"Please follow me," the short man ordered and led Sam down a narrow hall. The office they sat in made for a rather uncomfortable closeness.

"So I'm not quite sure where to begin Mr. Brenner."

"You can just call me David."

"Well, David, I don't really know how or why my manager set up this interview, but I don't really see much here that would peak this company's interest. I mean, you barely even filled out the application here, and I don't see a resume. There isn't even a place of residence listed."

"Look Mr. …"

"Jeff."

"Jeff. I have been on dozens of interviews in the last couple days. I know my application looks a little…bare, but I can promise you that you won't regret hiring me. Please, I am bordering on desperate here." Sam winced as his words echoed in his ears. Apparently begging wasn't beneath him.

Jeff sighed and sized up the man before him. David Brenner looked like an upstanding man, someone who he could give a chance to. He was clean-shaven, and spoke like an educated man. The only things that seemed out of place were his eyes. They were lonely, isolated, and haunted.

"David, what are you doing here?"

"Excuse me?"

"This place, this neighborhood, my office. Why are you here? You don't fit. You're out of place. You can get a better job than this. You can be somewhere better than this."

Sam shifted uncomfortably under Jeff's gaze. The man had hit the proverbial nail on the head and it made him feel slightly queasy. Jesus, was he that easy to read? They locked eyes and he tried to convey what he could not put into words. It was a plea for understanding, help, and a blind eye to his complete lack of identity. The silence was consuming him bit by bit. He sighed, weary of this game, and rose from his chair. The final spark of hope he possessed flickered a few times and went out. He threw out his most recent, popular exit line and extended his hand.

"Thank you for your time Jeff."

"Be at the warehouse on Monday morning at 8am sharp," Jeff said glancing at Sam's feet, "and bring a good pair of work boots." He grabbed Sam's hand and gave a slight nod.

"Thank you Jeff. Really, thank you so much." Sam sighed in relief and had a hard time controlling the grin that seemed to have cemented itself on his face. He turned to leave the room.

"Don't disappoint David!"

"8am sharp, work boots, got it!"

Sam shuffled down the hallway feeling somewhat better about his situation. At least with a job he would be able to get away from the motels, where Dean would be prone to search for him, and get into an apartment.

He exited the building with a little more bounce in his step then when he first entered. Almost immediately his feet lost their bounce, hell his body damn near lost its feet, when the door to the building behind him closed and his brother, who was too busy fiddling with his cell phone, drove by completely oblivious to his presence. He froze in place and a boulder fell into the pit of his stomach. Up ahead Dean disappeared around a corner and Sam felt the glue on the soles of his shoes dissolve. '_Run.'_ Sam's feet almost matched his racing heart as he piloted himself toward his motel. He had to beat Dean there. He had to erase any and all evidence he had ever even been to the town. _'Run.'_ Too many people had seen him. Too many people could identify him. How had Dean been able to find him so quickly? Maybe he was telling the truth about their younger years. Maybe he did just let Sam win. _'Run.'_ He rounded the corner of the parking lot and took shelter behind a beat up looking minivan. A quick assessment of the lot yielded no sign of Dean or his beloved car, and Sam kicked himself back into action.

Happy he had procrastinated unpacking he figured it would only be a matter of minutes before he could be in and out of the room with everything he needed. He heaved his mostly packed duffel off the floor and ran about the room snatching up what little there was. The sound of traffic flying by the motel had become white noise to him until a rather loud revving stopped him in his task. He didn't have to look out the window to know. He had spent far too much time with his father, and Dean, and that car. He even recognized the exact pitch of the squeaky driver's side door when it opened. The overwhelming desire just to see his brother was not something he could battle and he wandered over to the window. Peering through the Venetian blinds, he spotted Dean walking into the front office. He leaned his head against the window and let out a shaky breath.

"Damn you Dean, you aren't going to make this easy are you?"

He turned back to his bed and finished packing his bag. The knock at his door made his heart rate jump so far that it was actually painful.

"Sam? Sammy? Come on Sam I know you're in there!"

Sam marveled at the situation. It was possible that his salvation stood just on the other side of that door, but on that same token his death could be out there too. He stood transfixed on the slab of wood that had given him the illusion of safety these past few nights. Now, even with its large brass lock, it looked pathetic and, to him, seemed to serve no purpose at all. He had seen Dean plow through many doors in his time and this one was most certainly no exception. The door handle gave an experimental jiggle and Dean's voice wafted through the cracks yet again.

"Sam, I don't want to have to open the door for you! Sam?"

Sam smiled at the threat. He missed that. He missed all of that bravado laced with bitter sarcasm and witty quips. He slung his duffel over his back and headed into the bathroom. He hopped up onto the windowsill and let the despair wash over him.

Sam leapt out into the alley behind the motel as the sound of shattering wood blasted out the window behind him. Moments later he was around the front of the building and sitting in the front seat of the Impala. He knew Dean would be furious, but if he was capable of locating Sam that fast then Sam had to make sure Dean couldn't get to him with the same speed. It was time to step up his game.

It took only moments of fiddling under the steering wheel before the engine roared to life. Dean had certainly taught him well. Shifting into drive Sam refused to look in the rearview mirror for fear of what he might see there.

Dean charged into the room like a man with a purpose. He was here to rescue his baby brother, but there was just one problem. His baby brother wasn't here to be saved. He combed the room in search of clues. He was positive he had heard movement within when he had so elegantly opened the door with his boot. However, there was nothing there. No clothes, no shoes, no bag. The fact that the bed was a complete mess was proof enough though that he was hot on Sam's trail. Housekeeping had not even had the time to clean up the room since the last time his little brother had slept in it. On the continuing search for clues Dean wandered into the bathroom. Nothing really stuck out and Dean turned to leave. A light breeze drifted through the window causing the curtains to sway and Dean paused. He cocked his head and a triumphant smirk took hold as he drew back the fabric to reveal a large footprint on the sill.

"Slick Sammy, real slick."

So Dean hadn't been sending pleas and threats to an empty room. A very familiar sound caught his attention and he ran from the bathroom. He exited the motel just in time to see his most prized possession driving away.

"You have got to be kidding me." He threw his head back in frustration and yelled skyward. "Could things get any frigging worse?" Even with his strong disbelief and self-jinxing he felt that a follow-up was necessary so as to explain that he had not just issued the universe a challenge. Still gazing at the sky he added to his rant, "That was completely rhetorical and even if you have an answer I don't want to hear it!"

He put his hands on his hips and took a deep breath.

"Alright Sam, alright, but I sure as hell hope you don't think you're shaking me that easily."


	7. Chapter 7

Sam sped down the highway, thoroughly frustrated at life. Stealing the Impala? Yeah, _that_ was a bright idea. What in the hell had he been thinking? So much for being the smart one of the family, he thought. In all honesty, he could barely withstand listening to Dean's voicemails without turning into a blubbering idiot, and now he had in his possession something Dean treasured more than life itself. Hell, he probably wanted to find the damn car more than he wanted to find Sam! _'Way to go genius,'_ He chastised himself.

Everything about the car screamed Dean. The balled up bags of left over take out and the box of outdated cassette tapes for starters. Then there was the wrinkled Playboy magazine poking out from under the passenger seat and the small handgun hidden in the glove compartment. Sam caught himself humming to Dean's favorite hunting tape, Metallica, and his annoyance peaked. He pressed the eject button and promptly whipped the tape into the back seat. He eyed it through the rear view mirror with much contempt, and laughed with disbelief when he realized what it had landed on, Dean's leather jacket. He shook his head, drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, and took a deep breath to steady himself. The smell of his brother invaded his senses and he glanced in the mirror again, half expecting Dean to be hiding back there. He chuckled at the thought, knowing full well Dean had been searching his motel room when he had jacked the car. His amusement quickly faded as he spotted Dean's bag flung on the floor. _'Shit.'_ He had been in such a rush to get away from his brother it had never occurred to him to dump Dean's stuff so he would have access to, at the very least, the basic necessities one needed to survive. _'Boy, I am really on a freaking roll here aren't I?' _

Sam leaned over to the glove compartment and groped blindly for a map while he kept his focus on the road. He knew Dean had one around there somewhere. The car swerved slightly when he glanced at his hand and he jerked himself upright to correct the problem. The narrow road provided almost no room to pull over and he hadn't really been heading to any specific destination when he had stolen Dean's car. So in fewer words, he had absolutely no bloody idea where the hell he was. He leaned over to the side again slipping his hand under the passenger seat. He skipped right by the magazine, already well aware that it was going to be the first thing he encountered, and twisted his arm around, searching. It took several attempts owing to the fact that a few times he almost drove straight off the damned road and into the woods because he hadn't been paying attention. He sat up, breathing heavy, and dropped the map book onto his lap. He smiled at his pathetic triumph and started flipping through the pages. He had driven past the town line about a half hour ago so he was able to surmise a general idea of where he was heading.

A sudden buzzing from the bag to the right of him gave him a small sense of relief as he realized his phone was vibrating. _'Dean must still have his cell phone.'_ It gave him a margin comfort knowing he was still able to get in contact with his brother at any time, even though he really had no intention of doing so since it would've totally defeated the purpose of his flight to begin with. He rummaged through the bag intent on finding his phone and listening to the inevitably damning message Dean would leave him. He slid the phone from the bag and held it firm in his hand until it stopped vibrating. Moments later his screen began flashing and he dialed up his voicemail. He tried to remained focus on the road as he braced himself for Dean's venom. He was surprised when the first message contained nothing but a couple of deep breaths followed by a sigh of defeat and a dial tone. Feeling almost slighted that the message contained absolutely nothing he still felt obligated to save it before moving on to the next. After going through three of the messages, all of which mirrored the contents of the first, it suddenly occurred to Sam that Dean wasn't calling to leave messages. It was the same pathetic attempt at self-soothing as Sam had been doing. He simply wanted to hear his brother's voice. His chest warmed with affection at his brother's mistaken display of weakness. The feeling flickered out almost immediately when he listened to the first actual message Dean had left him.

"My car Sam? MY CAR? That is wrong on so many levels I can't even begin to explain, especially over the phone. You know those lovely talks you always want to have with me when you feel ' I am behaving inappropriately'? Boy do you have one coming your way my little psychic wonder. Your shining should've foretold you my car was off limits no matter what! Hell, your common freaking sense should've told you! And I don't know what the hell made you think taking my amazing, wonderful, incredibly bad ass car was going to stop me from looking for you, because now the two most important things in my life have gone missing." Sam eyes raised at the comment and he felt his chest swell a little. He was one of the most important things in Dean's life? He wondered if Dean had even realized what he had said. "I want my car _and_ my jacket back Sammy, in one freaking piece!" Sam's ego deflated dramatically at the last half of Dean's tirade, "the two most important things, his car and his jacket." _'That dick! I can't believe he said that!' _It took a moment for his, as Dean so affectionately named it, geek boy personality to catch on. '_He is trying to get a rise out of you. He is trying to get you to call him and rat yourself out. Oh Dean, just how stupid do you think I am?'_ The sting from Dean's comment all but disappeared the instant Sam got wind of his game. He glanced sideways as he dropped the phone back into his duffel, never seeing the bright red playground ball that bounced across the road ahead of him, or the young girl who went chasing after it.

The two-second distraction had awarded Sam with a less than appealing ultimatum when he refocused on his driving. His mind processed the situation at lightening speed, young girl in the road, no time to stop. Crash, or kill her? He wrenched on the steering wheel stomping his foot down on the brake in vain. He saw her face, saw her mouth open in a silent scream, locked his hazel eyes onto her green ones and prayed for forgiveness. He had tried to swerve around her but every instinct in him told him he wasn't going to make it. The car lost traction and spun into a magnificent three sixty as it skidded off the road. The windshield shattered as a branch punctured it and the car slammed into several trees on its swirling journey into the woods. The final hit that stopped Sam's careening, sent him head first into his window and right into the arms of oblivion. Seconds before he lost consciousness he thought of how pissed Dean was going to be when he finally found his car, and how disappointed he would be when he found out that Sam had killed a little girl. The little girl was oddly familiar, and as Sam tried to place her, the blackness claimed him.

He knew he heard someone calling his name. _'Who the hell is that anyways, and why won't they just let me sleep? They sound kind of upset. I really don't feel like waking up right now.'_ He slowly rose through the layers of consciousness. _'Ouch. OUCH! Shit! What the hell is that?'_ With his mental awareness returning, along with it came the pain of his recent injuries. He tried to call out to whoever was with him. He knew he needed help. His mind formed the words but even as he tried to say them all he managed to utter was a pitiful groan. _'What the hell happened to me?'_ His memories fuzzed and slipped away each time he felt he had a hold on one. Again he groaned as the voice calling out to him became more insistent. He tried experimenting with movement, which turned out to be a relatively terrible frigging idea. The simple action of turning his head caused an explosion of pain that sent him teetering on the edge of the blackness a second time and it took everything he had not to give in just to escape the pain. He tried opening his eyes, which he never thought he would ever view as a _task,_ but that was exactly what it was turning out to be. _'Christ, when the hell did eye lids become so heavy anyways?'_ It was tough and it took several tries, but eventually his persistence prevailed and Sam's eyes fluttered open. He fixated on an emerald green pair staring back at him and closed his almost immediately there after, deciding he would rather wait for the world to stop spinning before he opened them again. He moaned the first thing that came to mind.

"Dean?"

"Dean? Who is Dean? I'm not Dean. Don't you remember me? We met on the bus, my name is Rachel."

Rachel? Rachel? It is a tedious task, sorting through your memories after a recent head trauma, and it took Sam several minutes to recall exactly whom he was talking to. He groaned his response.

"Rachel? Are you hurt?"

The hesitation in the young girl's response was enough to pull Sam's eyes open once again. Her response was quiet, almost as though she were reliving what had just happened as she answered him.

"I'm okay I guess. I was able to jump out of the way before…"

He let his eyes drift shut again as some of his guilt faded away. At least he had only hurt himself. What had she been thinking, playing in the road like that!

"Rachel, what were you doing out there?" The sentence took a lot out of him and he rejoiced in her ability to talk like the world was ending.

"I live right up the street! What are you doing here?"

Rejoicing was short lived as he realized she was not in the mood to talk about her, but rather about him and his current condition. Lacking the enthusiasm she seemed to radiate, he tried to sate her curiosity with the simplest answers he could, and save his energy.

"Just passing through."

"Oh. Well maybe you should come to my house and get some bandages."

Sam shifted in place and tried to get a bead on the house Rachel was talking about, and how far he was going to have to walk. When he realized there wasn't a single house in sight he shook his head and told her he didn't think he could walk very far.

"Actually it's not very far it all. It's just on the other side of those trees. Wait right here," she said, and disappeared from his line of vision. A loud rattling noise snapped him back into reality as Rachel appeared beside him pulling a bright red wagon.

"You can put all your stuff in here and I'll pull, that way it will be easier for you to walk."

He smiled at her thoughtfulness and rather clever improvisation as he nodded in agreement to her plan. Whether he liked it or not, he did need to get somewhere where he could investigate how badly he had hurt himself and try and do a little damage control. He swung his legs out the door and leaned forward, bracing his hands against his knees. Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself upwards and latched on to the side of the car as the ground decided it no longer liked being under his feet. He felt Rachel come to his side and prayed he didn't collapse because for all of her good intentions to help him, if he fell he was quite positive he would squish her. He battled the nausea as his various other injuries started making their presence known. Stars exploded in his head and his right knee protested the action of anymore than a tiny bit of weight being put on it. Blood drizzled from unidentified cuts and the bruises all over him had pain beating at his frayed nerves. He licked his bottom lip as he concentrated on putting the pain out of his mind and focusing on what he needed to get done, only to find said lip split and bleeding. He was surprised to find that when he had finally gotten a hold of all his senses and was ready to begin the tiresome journey to the house, the young girl was standing in front of him with a loaded wagon, her hand expectantly in the air.

Common courtesy took hold and he figured since he wasn't going to be using the Impala anymore, (he didn't think anyone would in its current state) the least he could do would be return it to its rightful owner. Plus if Dean got the car back he would also get all his supplies back too, like his clothes for instance. Slipping his cell phone from his pocket, Sam sent the coordinates of the car to Dean's phone. He knew he would be long gone from Rachel's before Dean got there so it didn't really seem like a big deal. He shuddered as a cold wind hit him and he tucked his phone back into his pants. A slight tugging on his sleeve brought his attention back to the youngster with him.

"Are you cold Sam?"

"Only a little, I'll be fine."

His excuse, barely acknowledged, was brushed off with ease as she retrieved the jacket from the back of the car.

"Here put this on."

"No, it's ok Rachel. Just leave that in the car."

She clucked like a mother hen, obviously repeating some random snippet of medical knowledge instilled in her by her grandmother.

"You're already hurt Sam and the last thing you need to go along with all your boo-boos is a cold. Now put on the jacket!"

Secretly, Sam really did want to put on the jacket. He wanted to have it with him forever. It kept Dean with him and gave him a small sense of security. It didn't take to much coaxing for him to concede to her demands and he donned the leather reminder in a matter of minutes. The second it was on him he knew he would've given anything for a mirror. The sleeves stopped a quarter way down his fore arms and the bottom of the garment stopped right above his belly button. He knew he must have looked ridiculous. Covered in blood, tattered jeans, and a coat that made him look like he had drank the potion from Alice in Wonderland. He grasped Rachel's hand and concentrated on the sound of the squeaky wheels of the wagon as the journey began, determined to outlast the pain.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I don't own them, which is a damn shame, but I dream about it occasionally.

For those who have left reviews: Thank you all very much. I can't tell you how happy I am with all the feedback.

Dean stuffed his hands in his pockets and kicked at a pebble with his boot as he wandered down the street. '_My poor car, what is he doing to you baby?' _He didn't really know where he was going, but the lonely ache in the pit of his stomach was throwing a bit of a tantrum and the walking helped him with the illusion he was on his way to rescue his beloved vehicle, and his jacket. _'My jacket! May the good lord have mercy on your soul Sammy Boy, if that jacket is in any condition less than perfect if I get it back_!' He kicked himself. 'When_ Dean, when you get it back!' _The ringing of his cell phone interrupted his mental tirade.

"Ha! I knew you wouldn't be able to live with your-" His triumphant remark lay dead in the air as he realized that Sam was not calling, but had sent him coordinates. Was he asking for help? Was he in danger? Was he trying to send Dean in the wrong direction to give himself more time? His temper prickled slightly as he realized he couldn't actually look up the coordinates that were being sent to him because all of his maps were in his car. _'That, was a cruel joke.' _ He shook his head in annoyance as he realized he now had a destination. Firstly, map, and secondly, those coordinates. With a little effort Dean jogged down the street in search of a local convenience store, some coffee, and a map.

Sam slid down into the wooden chair behind him, clutching his head. The journey from the car to the farmhouse had been a long and painful one. On several occasions he had to stop and wait for the ground to stop wiggling around under his feet. His personal diagnosis had been a hefty concussion, supplicated by the rather nasty gash skimming his hairline. Rachel had been quite the little nurse the whole way. Asking Sam every thirty seconds if he needed to rest, or if she should run ahead and come back with the bandages.

He decided he had never really taken time to appreciate chairs and all their wonderful uses, like sitting. His body was sore and that chair, that chair was a beautiful thing. He attempted to take off the jacket she had insisted he wear, but in the end it was too much of a struggle and the pain decided he actually really did look just fine in it. '_Yeah, right,'_ he thought eyeing the sleeves that ended mid forearm. He leaned back and took a deep breath, wishing he could just drift off to sleep. Moments later Rachel wandered in, her arms full of supplies. She handed him two small white capsules and a glass of water.

"It's ok Rachel, I don't really need those." Not even knowing what the pills were, he immediately refused them, not wanting anything else to hinder his reflexes. He needed to hurry and get gone before Dean showed up, a very pissed off Dean.

"It's Tylenol for your head," she replied. "You kept grabbing it on the way here, I figured maybe it was hurting you." Her green eyes peered up at him sadly, as though he had hurt her by refusing her help. She opened up several bandages and placed them in front of him, along with tape, scissors, and hydrogen peroxide. Sam eyed the peroxide with disgust. _'Well, this is going to be fun.'_ He glanced at the two white pills set before him, rethinking his stance on those little white miracles. _'That peroxide is going to sting like a son of a bitch, and my head already is hosting a fucking conga line.'_ He sighed, smiled at her, and swiped the two pills from the table. He downed them with a giant swig of water and muttered, "Alright, let's get this over with."

He grabbed the peroxide bottle as Rachel directed him to the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the bathtub with his feet on the tile floor. Thanking the little girl as she handed him a rag, he tilted his head back, covered his eyes with the cloth, and poured the peroxide on his wound. He barely restrained the yelp of pain that so desperately fought the barrier of his lips and ended up punching the wall next to him instead as the peroxide oozed and sizzled, killing the bacteria it encountered. Stars danced before his eyes and the edges of his vision blurred as the fire seared his scalp. He let out a hiss of breath as the stinging gave way to a steady throbbing and he wiped away the excess medication.

"Rachel?"

"Yeah?"

"Where is your grandmother?"

"She went into town to buy groceries, why?"

"Well for one thing, I don't think she would appreciate finding a strange man sitting in her bathroom, and two, I wanted to know if there were any motels nearby."

"She should be back in a few hours."

"Do you have a phone book around here anywhere?"

"I think so. Let me go look."

She bounded out of the bathroom, leaving Sam to his own devices. He stood experimentally as though he were tossing a pop quiz onto his equilibrium. When he felt adequately prepared enough to walk without the assistance of the wall, he wandered out of the bathroom and down the hall. He noted the house was immaculate in size and neatness. Everything was spotless and he gained an immediate understanding of the girl's love for it. His perusal of the house's interior was squashed when he caught sight of the clock on the wall. Apparently it had taken them well over forty minutes to make it to the house and get Sam cleaned up. His pulse jumped as he realized that Dean was probably only minutes away.

"Rachel? Rachel?"

He moved back down the hallway checking each door he encountered as he went. Where the hell did she go? He paused and tried to listen for her, catching only silence. A tightness took hold in his chest and he wiped the sweat from his brow. A shuffling from behind had him spinning in place only to discover nothing there. He tried calling out to her a second time and when he was greeted by the continual silence, his hunting instincts began taking hold. He pressed his back firmly against the wall, checking up and down the hall again and again. He slowed his breathing and strained his ears. Working his way across the house he searched for Rachel, and something he could use as a weapon. He didn't know what was causing it, or where it was coming from, but every internal alarm he possessed was going into overdrive. His instincts screamed at him to run, to leave the house and never look back. The random adrenaline burst, mixed with the endorphins, had put his nerves on a momentary hold and the pain vanished as he searched for Rachel. Nausea and dizziness crashed in on him and he leaned against the wall. His knees wobbled and his hands trembled. _'What the hell is wrong with me?' _Sam closed his eyes and tried desperately to steady himself. He still had to get out of there Dean was on his way.

'_It's the pills you dolt! She gave you the wrong pills!'_

'_She didn't drug you, for Christ's sake, she's only eight years old!'_

'_No one is saying she did it on purpose genius, but you did trust an eight year old to go into a medicine cabinet, that was probably full of all kinds of drugs considering this is an old woman's house, and take two pills out of a bottle she _said_ was Tylenol.'_

'_But I, she, oh crap…'_

Sam's internal war continued and the drugs began to wreak their havoc upon his body. He fell to his knees as the dry heaving took hold, and every wretch slammed against the inside of his skull causing his eyes to brim with tears. His hair matted to his forehead, doused in sweat. His stomach knotted in protest and his breathing became labored. The physical beating his body was taking distracted him from everything around him. At that very moment, he wished he still had his brother with him. He felt weak and alone, and wanted nothing more than to fall asleep and let Dean fix whatever the hell the problem was.

He lurched forward on all fours, crawling along the carpeted hall. Determined to get away from the house, he gave a small grunt of satisfaction at leaving the heaping pile of vomit on the nice Victorian carpet on his way out the back door. Although he wanted to believe the girl had made a simple mistake and given him the wrong medication, logic told him otherwise. What possible medication could this old hag require that would work like this? He pushed himself up onto haunches when he finally made it out to the porch. The fresh air helped to shake off some of the grogginess that had set in and he stumbled down the steps. He concentrated firmly on the ground in front of him as he wandered through the trees and back onto the main road, hoping that the next town wasn't too far away.

Rachel sat in the window seat and watched as her prey attempted to descend the porch steps, almost breaking his face in the process. He was weak, she could tell. The drugs were kicking in a lot faster than she expected. She let a triumphant grin spread across her face when she watched Sam pause and rest against a large oak tree, his strength diminishing with every step, before continuing in his escape. When he disappeared behind the tree line, the incredible need for revenge tore through her and her eyes turned into glowing pools of onyx. Her blood lust wept at the loss and it took all she was not to chase him through the woods and end him right there. But she knew that if she wanted to enjoy the Young Winchester's death, it would have to be long and slow. That was not something to be accomplished with his brother nosing around. He was an obstacle that she needed to take care of. The precarious hold she had on her rage almost dissolved when she answered her front door only moments later to find said obstacle standing on her porch. She clamped her lids shut when she felt her eyes starting to darken as murderous joy surged through her veins

"Hi, My name is Dean. I was wondering if maybe you had seen a guy around here. He might have been hurt. His name is Sam."

She stepped aside and allowed him entrance into the house.

"He was here, but he left a while ago. He said someone was following him. He left a letter for you, it's on the kitchen table."

She smiled as he stepped through the door and she closed it behind him, intent on making sure he never stepped back out of it.

Dean entered the kitchen and glanced at the table. He didn't like it. He didn't like it at all. The house looked wrong, it _felt _wrong. His instincts were confirmed by the severe lack of letter anywhere.

"Hey, there's no letter in here."

"I know."

Dean crashed to the floor as he felt something solid connect with the back of his head. His world spun out of control and, even though he had just suffered a decent head trauma, he was quite positive the voice that had answered had been his own. He rolled onto his back and threw his arms up into a defensive position, anticipating another blow to the head. His misjudgment cost him dearly when a steel-toed boot collided with the right side of his rib cage. He shifted onto his side and tried to curl in on the searing pain that was knifing through his torso. His attacker loomed over him and he caught sight of the face leering down at him, his face. Too shocked to react the darkness claimed him moments later when his favorite boots stomped the consciousness out of him.

Please review. I read all of them and love them Complaints, comments? Suggestions? Keep them coming!


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Sam and Dean own me!

Well! Happy Thanksgiving to all! I am sooooo sorry this took so long to update, but there has been so much going on. My father has gotten a new job and is moving the family to Maryland. I am going to miss Boston so much.

For those who have left reviews, Thank you very much. Please enjoy the story and comments are always appreciated,

It was slow and painful, waking up. His head pounded and his eyes watered. He reached to pinch the bridge of his nose hoping to ease the stinging from when his face collided with the floor. It was then he realized his hands were tied behind his back. Dean opened his eyes trying to surmise where he was. _'Stone floor, pipes hanging from the ceiling, basement.' _He sat, bound to a pipe in the corner of the room, his legs stretched out in front of him and strapped firmly together. Ropes crisscrossed on the front of his chest, keeping him firmly against the pipe and in a sitting position. A single piece of duct tape adorned his face, intent on ensuring his silence.

His eyes searched the room hoping to spot his brother. He tried to clamp down on the fear that ran rampant through him when he realized Sam was not with him. He tested each of his bindings experimentally, hoping one might be loose enough for him to wiggle out of. A short struggle later revealed that wiggling was definitely not an option. The clink of metal on stone drifted from behind him and he grinned triumphantly beneath his duct tape gag. He locked his elbows straight and pushed his chest out to lower his hands to the floor. The ropes bit in to his chest hard, but all he could think of was Sam and the pain was quickly pushed aside. He thumbed his forgotten pocketknife appreciatively. He had learned to never actually carry a pocketknife in his pocket. You just can't get to it fast enough. Instead it always remained strapped to his inner forearm. Flicking it open he began the tedious task of sawing through the ropes. He had almost made it through the second one when the sound of the basement door opening caught his attention and he concealed the blade in his sleeve. What came down the stairs was not even close to what he was expecting. A demon, a monster, some random big biker guy even, but not what stood before him. His eyes were transfixed on his attacker, and bile rose in his throat. Killing a demon, monster, or some random biker guy would not have been a problem for him, but a little kid. He studied the young girl before him trying to gather any evidence that she wasn't human. It wouldn't be so hard killing her if she wasn't human. Nothing. No black eyes, or hidden horns, he wished he were untied so that he could check to see if she had the little 666 on her head. Something, anything that would help to alleviate his guilt at having to kill the creature before him.

"Hello Dean."

He rolled his eyes at the 'sweetness' in her voice and mumbled back through the tape.

"Mmmph…"

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" She barely suppressed that giggle that rose in her chest. Dean glared at her and realized the more she pissed him off the less guilty he was feeling. The image of kicking the girl in the shin flitted through his mind. He jerked his head away as she reached for his face, but the cons of being tied down sort of left him to a rather defined area, and she ripped the tape from his mouth with a smirk of satisfaction.

"OW!" The exclamation bounced off the stonewalls with a slight accusatory tone. "Where's Sam?"

"I'm sorry who? Oh, Sam, your brother! Well, it's like I said, he was here a little while ago but he left. When I find him though, I'll let him know you were looking for him. In any case it won't really matter since Sam won't be living through the night."

"What do you want from him? He never did anything to anybody. I swear to God if you touch a hair on his head I will kill you. You hear me bitch!"

"Never did anything to anyone? Oh that's a good one. The things you hunt Dean, don't you think you may inadvertently upset the balance of the world around you when you kill them. You kill one thing and piss off ten others and innocent lives are lost. Well innocence lost leaves guilt and pain in its wake and eventually it festers, and all that's left to those who remain is hate. Hate and anger."

"Geez, with the monologue already! You got a point coming anytime soon or am I doomed to sit here and bask in the sloppy seconds of your self-pity? If that's the case you mind getting me a coffee, and perhaps shutting up?"

The child before him went rigid. Her eyes blazed with fury and her hands fisted by her side. He was stalling, a fact which almost slipped by her in her intense need for revenge. He was buying time for his brother. Possibly planning an escape. It didn't matter. There was nothing he could do now. Sam was all hers. A cruel smile curved on her lips and she wagged her finger at Dean in a mocking reprimand.

"It's always a game with you isn't it Dean? Always some smart-ass comment to make light of a bad situation. Well all the witty retorts in your repertoire aren't going to save you tonight, or Sam for that matter. She didn't deserve what happened to her, and it wouldn't have happened if your brother had been honest. If he had told her what was really out there, what was really hiding in the shadows, biding its time, maybe she could've been better prepared. She didn't have to die. Sam made the choice to support her ignorance and now he will reap it!"

"Listen, I am all for riddles, really knowing the candlelight is fire and all that, but you want to clue me in as to what the hell you are talking about."

"Don't feign stupidity Dean, you're no fool. Jessica Moore died by Sam's hand."

"Sam never hurt Jessica. He loved her! He never did anything to…"

"THAT'S RIGHT! HE NEVER DID ANYTHING! HE DIDN'T GIVE HER ANY KIND OF PROTECTION FROM THE REAL WORLD DEAN. YOU KNOW THE ONE I AM TALKING ABOUT, AND IN SO DOING HE CONDEMEND HER TO DEATH. HIS ACTIONS, OR LACK THEREOF GOT HER KILLED AND HE CARRIES THE RESPONIBILITY FOR IT. HE KILLED JESSICA! HE KILLED MY BABY!"

Dean's brow furrowed with confusion. _Baby? What the hell?_ Black eyes glared at him with menace and he knew that the conversation was over. He tried to find purchase again, anything that would keep that girl in the basement and away from his brother.

"Well if you want to board that psychotic train of logic then we might as well discuss the fact that I trained Sam to never reveal our secret to anyone. So technically, it would be my fault that Jessica is dead."

Dean tried to monitor the reaction of the creature before him. Nothing could have prepared him for the following moments. The child laughed and looked at him with an expression somewhere between manic and slightly hysterical. She shrugged her shoulders and tilted her head back with laughter. Dean watched in horror as her skin rippled and stretched. She doubled in height and her long hair fell to the floor only to be replaced with a tight uniform crew cut. Muscle exploded beneath tan skin and her girlish giggle became deep and raspy. Before him stood an exact replica of himself, from the boots, to the necklace, to the worn brown leather jacket. The revelation that hit him was so intense he almost forgot how to breathe.

"Fine, you want to say Jessica's death is your fault I don't care. Seems like you are quite the killer Dean. Guess we should just add Sam's death to you're body count, shouldn't we?"

_Oh God Sam. Sammy. This is it. You saw this didn't you? You saw me coming after you. You're not hunting. You're running. Jesus Sam, why didn't you say something? Tell me! _He wasn't stupid though. Dean had always been protector and hero. The big brother that everyone always wanted but only Sammy got. Sam would never throw an accusation out there that put Dean at fault, ever. He glared at the creature before him with a fury that burned in his chest. _Well, guilt gone. I think I will enjoy killing this thing._

"Really Dean, you two were so easy. I can't believe you've survived as long as you have. I mean your weaknesses are so obvious it is ridiculous. Sam is yours, your Sam's. Do you have any idea how easy it was to drive the two of you apart? I am actually a little disappointed in you."

"Do we need to have the monologue discussion again, or can we skip back to the part where I tell you of the many varied and colorful ways I can kill you if you hurt my brother. And make no mistake, I will kill you."

"Ah yes, the quips never fail right? Well, why don't you try to come up with something really creative, and in the meantime, I got me a little brother to kill."

Dean lashed out with his feet, and watched as the not-Dean jumped back and gave a short laugh.

"Got to be faster than that Winchester!"

"I swear to God I will skin you alive you son of a bitch. You hear me? I will spend the rest of my life hunting you down and I will kill you just as slow."

Panic welled up inside of him as his tirade fell on deaf ears. He watched hopelessly as the creature wearing his body walked up the stairs and flicked off the light. He uttered a cry of despair as the darkness invaded the room.

"Sam! NO! SAMMY!"

The last of the light left the room as the basement door clicked shut and Dean was left in the dark with his imagination and for the first time in longer than he cared to acknowledge, Dean felt the tears breaking through the damn he worked so hard at keeping up and he cried. He felt the sting of failure. He wasn't going to be able to protect Sam this time. He confessed to the darkness his realization.

"I am sorry Sam."

**Hey! Hey you! You reading the story! Yeah, you! See that nifty little button down there. I think you should click it. Yeah click it and leave a review! Are you clicking it? Are you! Click it! Come on! **


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I don't them. However I did put them on my Christmas list. So Santa, if you are reading this, please be aware that that is all I put on my Christmas list!

**Shout out to Blackpanther97, your review for chapter three made me laugh my ass off. Thank you!**

For everyone else who reviewed, as always you, have my gratitude. Please enjoy the story.

Sam stumbled through the parking lot of what he hoped was a motel. He silently wished that he was over the worst of whatever drug he had been foolish enough to put into his system, but his fuzzy vision and rubbery legs told him otherwise. He paused to rest against a car, whose battered condition left one wondering just what it had been through, when another one of his more violent episodes of dizziness overtook him. He took several steadying breaths and pushed through the nausea that often accompanied these attacks. Unbidden, the image of Dean's face finding his beloved car wrapped around a tree jumped into his head and he let out a soft chuckle.

"Well if my dream was wrong before…I've certainly brought a whole new twist to self-fulfilling prophecy." He shook his head and pushed himself off the jalopy he was resting on. He shuffled towards what he figured was the front office and tried to logic out his situation. He was drugged, weak, and damn sure that something besides a possibly demented Dean was following him. He wasn't in any shape to fight anything that exceeded the size and strength of your average butterfly, as a matter of fact anything besides sleeping sounded like an impossible task at the moment. He didn't like it, but he didn't have any choice. He needed Dean, and he needed him soon. He needed someone to watch over him until this drug had filtered from his system and he didn't really trust anyone besides his brother. Whatever Rachel had given him, it was strong, and it was slowly stealing away his consciousness. He didn't know what he did to piss her off, or if she was even human, but he didn't think escaping her was going to be all that easy. Come to think of it, her popping up in the middle of the street he happened to be speeding down, all of a sudden didn't seem like a coincidence. No, he had been set up. _'Great! Fucking great! As if worrying about Dean killing me wasn't enough of a frigging responsibility, now I've got one of the kids from Village of the Damned looking to come out and play!' _He grimaced as he reached for the door in front of him and fire raced through his torso. He needed to get into a room soon and clean up his injuries, make sure nothing was too serious. The clerk was leaning forward on the counter, head in hand, reading a newspaper. He didn't even look up at the sound of the door.

"Can I help you?"

"Two queens please."

Sam waited as the man took time to finish reading his article before retrieving the room key from the series of hooks behind him.

"Room 14, holy crap! Hey buddy, are you ok? What happened to you? Do you need me to call an ambulance?"

Sam winced. He didn't think he looked that bad, apparently he was wrong. He replied with a quick smile and denied the man's offer.

"I'm ok, thanks. I got into a car accident earlier and just haven't had the chance to clean myself up yet. I'll be alright." Sam nodded and swiped the key from the counter in front of him. He dropped his credit card on the marble and waited for the man to get back with the program.

"Ok Mr. Rockford, if you're sure."

Sam nodded and watched while his card was swiped through. That was his distress call. If Dean were still looking for him, which Sam hoped to God he was, it wouldn't take very long for him to be found. That name was a code between the two, Jim Rockford, a path to each other if they ever ended up lost or separated. He was lost now. He needed Dean now. His eyes were becoming more and more difficult to keep open, and his knees had developed a slight tremble. He accepted the card back gratefully, and his stomach knotted at the small slip of paper attached to it. His brow furrowed in confusion at the phone number scrawled on the scrap paper in his hand, and gazed at the man evenly, unsure of how to respond. The man shook his head and smirked in response.

"Just so we're on the same page, that phone number is in case you decide you need help. You know if you change your mind about the ambulance or something. It's the direct line to the front desk."

Sam mentally kicked himself because the man before him had quite obviously figured out where Sam's line of thinking had led him the second he had spotted the number. He smiled apologetically and thanked the man as he headed out the office door; keen on making sure the conversation went no further because he honestly didn't think he would remain conscious through it. Looking down the porch and to the door numbered one to the left of him, he suddenly despised the number fourteen. Why? Because there were too many numbers before it, thus increasing the distance he would have to walk.

It was long, and painful, but when Sam finally stumbled across the threshold of room fourteen, he kicked the door closed behind him and promptly fell, face first, on the nearest bed. Unsure of just what exactly he had pissed off, because by now he had thoroughly convinced himself Rachel wasn't human (cuteness be damned), he didn't want to chance the use of his cell phone and possibly being tracked. Sam groaned into the pillow and his stomach growled in protest at the toxins floating around it. The cramps ripped through him and pain exploded in his chest. The short burst of adrenaline launched Sam from the bed into the bathroom. He skidded to a halt on his knees and wrapped his arms around the bowl of the toilet as heave after wretched heave burned his throat. His eyes watered and he trembled with exhaustion. When he finally felt his stomach empty he rose and made his way to the sink. He braced himself on his arms and leaned toward the mirror to get a better look at his face. The gash on his head had stopped bleeding, but there was no doubt that it needed to be stitched. Half his face was covered in dried blood and his lip was a little fatter than he had originally perceived. He peeled off his shirt to reveal a blanket of bruises that looked a violent shade of heliotrope. _'That's gonna hurt in the morning.'_ Sam sighed and winced when the action caused more pain than expected. Taking off the shirt proved to be difficult enough, so he was well aware of the fact that what was coming next would probably best be done following a few shots of whiskey…or vodka…or rum, or any combination of the three. The lovely idea of alcoholic assistance disappeared when he remembered that on his jolly romp through the woods with the Impala, the window had been a little less then friendly with his head. In short, mixing alcohol and head injuries is a big no no. Sighing, he clenched his teeth together and tried his best to contain the pain. He ran his hands over his torso in a slow examination. Searching for broken ribs was always a nasty process particularly when every single rib he had was bruised. The pain that ran through him had him careening dangerously close to another session with the local toilet bowl, and he had to stop and regain his composure before continuing. He felt rather confident that there were no clean breaks, although he wasn't sure about the possibility of the amount of stress fractures. Among the rest of his injuries, a sprained finger, a rather long cut along the side of his thigh, and a very swollen wrist. _'Set the wrist and finger, wrap the ribs, clean out and bandage the cuts and I'll be good as…" _Sam closed his eyes, tilted his head back and let out a huff of frustration. The triage would have to wait until Dean showed up, because Sam, in all his wisdom and glory, had left the first aid kit in the back of the Impala after the accident. He huffed again when he thought about the lecture he was going to have to endure from Dean about that slipshod mistake. Yet another huff when he realized that he had more than one lecture headed his way.

He shook his head at the absolute dreariness of the situation and he planted himself at the small desk opposite the beds. He sat and waited, hopefully, for Dean to come to his rescue. He wanted to stay awake until his brother arrived because yet another thing he shouldn't be mixing was sleep and head trauma. He was actually beginning to resent the rules of medicine. His eyes drifted to half-mast and he slumped against the seat back and silently willed Dean to hurry, because by his college aided estimation he was probably not going to stay awake for more than another five minutes. He glanced at the clock above the nightstand and grunted when he realized it had been less than an hour since he had checked in. He had almost slipped away when he was rattled back to full alertness by a vigorous knock at his door.

"Sam?"

"Dean?"

Sam stared at the door expectantly, knowing Dean would make everything all better. And Dean would make it all better were it Dean that stood opposite that wooden barrier. The creature in his stylish Dean suit stood outside the door and grinned evilly as he listened to his victim shuffling towards him. It was too easy. The door swung open to reveal a very haggard looking but pleased Sam.

"You just gonna stand there and stare at me or are you going to move and let me in?"

Sam shook himself from his daze and grinned stupidly. "Sorry," and with that he stepped aside and invited "Dean" into the room.

"I've been looking for you Sam."

The voice sounded steady, but wrong, and Sam realized his mistake far too late. He spun and locked eyes with his brother. His terror consumed him when they connected and those green orbs were cold and empty. The only prelude to the attack that hit him was an evil grin and a small whisper of revenge. Sam threw his arms up in defense as his brother launched his body, shoulder first, in to Sam's ribs. He cried out as pain blossomed throughout his entire torso, and they tumbled to the floor, Sam fighting for his life.

Comments, complaints, suggestions, likes, dislikes? Please put them in a review for me! I love reading reviews and I do read every single one of them! Thank You!


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Ok, first of all I know I need to be giving a very big apology right now. To everyone who has read this story and reviewed, you have my undying appreciation. I know it has been far too long since I updated but I swear there is a good reason. I had moved down to Maryland with the family and was trying to get settled in, ya know, new school, new job, and all that jazz. However I ended up receiving an email from one of the schools I had applied to here in Massachusetts, and found out that I had to move back to New England because my housing request had been granted at the college I wanted to go to. So I have moved twice in the past two months while doing school. And of course I had to move a third time, into the actual college, so everything else sort of just fell where it was. I am getting settled in at school now and am finally getting back on track.**

"I'm coming Sam hang on."

Dean sat in the dark, his hard breathing drowning out all other sounds. His tears had stopped several moments after they started when he realized that they were nothing short of surrender, and he wasn't giving up, not on Sammy. His anger had taken hold quickly after that. He attacked the ropes that bound him with a renewed fervor. He twisted his hands this way and that, speed being his main focus, and dutifully ignored the blood that began trickling from his wrist, down his palm and fingers, warming the cool steel. He pushed his chest outward against the ropes, pulling them taut as he proceeded on the tedious task of sawing through them with such a restricted range of motion. The going was slow and, with each unrelenting swipe of steel against rope yielding no release, Dean's fear and panic swelled within. Every second he worked the ropes that son of a bitch…thing, was getting closer and closer to Sammy. He was running out of time.

When the ropes finally snapped and fell limp in his lap, Dean stood with his back to the wall. Leaning against the cool cement, he sidestepped his way slowly through the darkness in search of the bottom of the stairs, and an escape from his prison. When he reached the top of the steps, he took his weapon in an easy back handed grip. He pushed the door open slowly, employing all the stealth he possessed, and scampered down the hall in a well-practiced hunting crouch. He'd be damned if he was going to let this thing get the jump on him again. His successful escape led him out the back door, bypassing what looked to be like a serious pile of puke, and into the forest that bordered three sides of the home.

He stopped on the edge of the woods and tried to get his bearings. _'Sam, gotta find Sam. Alright kiddo, where the hell did you go?'_ He gripped the knife he held fiercely and his body shook with murderous rage as he spotted the dark smear on the tree just a few feet to his left. Sam's blood, his Sammy's blood, adorned the heavy pine. Up too high on the trunk to have been the little girl's, and far too fresh to be mistaken for someone else's, Dean used the clue to pick up his younger brother's trail. The kid hadn't even tried to hide it either, which Dean filed away as one of the many things he was going to be lecturing Sam about when he got him back. His trail had been left out plain as day in his haste to escape the little Linda Blair wannabe. Large goofy footprints, random spatters of blood, and trampled foliage pretty much screamed "THIS WAY TO AN EASY TARGET!"

Forgoing stealth and tact, Dean launched himself along the trail, only slowing down here, and there, to confirm he was still heading in the right direction. His internal clock estimated that whatever it was that was chasing Sam had about a ten-minute head start, and propelled him through the woods at a reckless speed. Barely dodging protruding roots and low hanging branches, he faltered when he unexpectedly burst through the tree line and stumbled onto an empty road. Hunting instincts aside, brotherly instincts immediately predicted how his kid brother would've acted when he made it out of the forest and Dean didn't even hesitate as he headed north up the road at a dead run. He sent a silent thanks to his father for the years of rigorous training that allowed him to cover the distance between him and Sam at the furious pace he set for himself.

His body moved on autopilot and he processed the situation as he ran. Sam had taken off because he believed Dean was going to… well, he really didn't want to know what Sam had thought he was going to do. It pricked at Dean's pride to have to acknowledge that Sam could believe he would ever hurt him. He wasn't really sure where Sam had been between the time he left and the time he met up with the Rachel, but from how Dean had been treated by her, he assumed Sam must have caught on to the fact that she was definitely not the little miss hospitality giggle girl she pretended to be. No, in fact, if Dean were to be one hundred percent up front about it, she was a downright bitch, and God help her if she hurt Sam. When something hurts his little brother, it's a whole new ball game. Morals ceased to be and he existed in his barest element. Hunting instincts kicked into overdrive and he became a walking weapon, void of a conscience. Nothing fucked with Sammy and lived to tell about it, nothing.

**A/N: I am sorry this chapter had to be so short. I have been getting some messages from some of my readers asking me if I planned on finishing this story, and the answer is, ABSOLUTELY. I wanted to put up a little something to show that I still have a plan for this story. Now that I have finished all my moving I hope to get back into a steady pace, like before, with the writing and updating. To those of you who took the time to PM and let me know that you still wanted to read my story after all this time, I would like to thank you.**

**If there even is enough of a chapter, lol, please review.**

**THANK YOU ALL.**


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